


Poison of Choice

by sinningpumpkin



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Power Imbalance, Pre-Canon, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-27
Updated: 2019-04-27
Packaged: 2020-02-07 06:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18615010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinningpumpkin/pseuds/sinningpumpkin
Summary: John didn’t know who he was looking at. The Arthur he knew would have taken what he wanted with few questions in between. He would have been filthy and talkative in a honey warm drawl that made John’s skin burn. He knew nothing about this Arthur, who tilted his head back on a noise close to a whimper as Dutch slid inside of him. But, he had never been in bed with him before. What did John know, next to the man who owned him?





	Poison of Choice

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday olive, i hope this makes you sad <3

John expected a lot of things in the moments after Dutch called his name. A reprimand, first and foremost, followed by the chance of a patronizing compliment. Most unlikely was a begrudging admission of respect. He didn’t receive any of those things. He was so busy trying to understand what the hell Dutch could want from him when the drinking was done and he was about to crawl into his tent, that he lost track of time. “I called your name, boy.” Dutch was no longer a few paces away, but right behind him. John swallowed everything that wasn’t his pride and turned to look at the criminal. 

“What can I do for you, Dutch?” The wind ripped through the open plain with a vengeance. Cold fell hard with the setting sun, and as John stared up into the man’s glittering eyes, he listened to his canvas tent pitching and snapping in the wind. A frigid night laid ahead of him, and not even the warm sheen of whiskey over his higher thoughts could save him from bitterness. Dutch’s tent would be warmed through, well cushioned with a better bed than John could even dream of. He set his jaw. He needed to slip into his tent before he did something he regretted, something that could draw Arthur’s ire.

Dutch stared at him for a moment. He was not observing, but calculating, lip curled and eyes burning. John hated when that look was leveled at him. It reminded him that not all was well in camp. With a cut throat look like that Dutch could remind him that John could be thrown to the dogs at any moment. Looks like that reminded John that Arthur would never be his. Whiskey fueled rage burned up his spine and made his shoulders roll back. The few moments that passed between them felt like an eternity, a nightmare. Dutch spoke before John could land a drunken hook into his jaw. “C’mon, boy.” He motioned as he turned on his heel and set off toward his tent.

There was a chip on John’s shoulder, bigger than most. But he knew better to turn down Dutch when everyone was retiring for the night and Arthur wasn’t anywhere close to save his dumb, upstart ass. So he listed after Dutch, trying to keep the rage curtained from his face. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize they were walking to Dutch’s tent, the place that he was so terribly bitter about it. The closest thing to luxury that they could afford. Dutch untied the flaps and pushed inside. John pretended like he didn’t stutter to a stop outside the entrance, staring down at the warm light that spilled across the bunches of grass at his feet. It was warm, inviting. Burning oil lamps, like a warning fire. 

John swallowed and pushed inside the tent. Dutch was still standing close to him, his broad shoulders blocking the view of his bed. “Sit, John.” He stepped around Dutch in the narrow space, eyes falling to the cot and immediately tripping over a nonexistent crack. Arthur was in Dutch’s bed, curled up coyly on his side, thick blankets drawn over his bare chest. The air was sucked from John’s lungs, feet turning to lead as he tried to catch himself before hitting the floor. His stomach churned, bright green envy burning at the edges of his vision as he felt Dutch enter his space again.

Arthur was staring at him like Dutch didn’t even exist. His face was flushed. Every word John knew evaporated from his head and all he could do was stare. At the little smile Arthur had hidden behind his hand, the way he curled around himself and made himself look small. John swallowed and took a step toward the chair Dutch had pointed to, nearly tripping again on the way with his eyes trained on Arthur. “Don’t hurt yourself, Marston.” His voice was softer than normal, close to a whisper as his eyes followed John. He flashed a grin, somehow managing to find normalcy within Dutch’s tent with Arthur, naked in his bed. 

John took the seat offered to him, eyes drawn away from Arthur when Dutch sat on the edge of the bed. Any normalcy he thought he could find was stripped away as the older man stared at him. The room dropped ten degrees as silence crackled between them. Even the ambient sounds of camp seemed to drop away as Dutch stared him down. Arthur wasn’t much help, strung taut as a bow as he clutched at the quilts and glanced between the two men. John bit his tongue, and waited. “Have you touched him?”

Dutch’s eyes were dark in a way John had never seen them. He was a clown with a pretentious stick up his ass. He threw people to the wolves and dragged Arthur in and out of messes more times than John could count. But he had never been scared of him, until his petty crush was aired between the three of them. John swallowed around the beating of his heart. Out of the corner of his eye, he knew Arthur wasn’t looking at him. He was thankful for it. “No.” He finally said. It was the truth. Shoulders bumping a bit too often in carriages and well aimed punches were the closest he and Arthur had gotten. But that didn’t take into account how they looked at each other. John buried his impulsivity under his self preservation and waited.

“But you wanted to.” Dutch was grinning now, vindicated and as cocky as ever. John’s jaw clenched, whiskey boiled up in the back of his throat. “Don’t look so scared, Marston, he sure is a looker.” John was still staring into Dutch’s face, but he could see his broad palm rubbing up to the scant curve of Arthur’s hip. “And I know you like to look.” 

John tilted his head back. “That a problem?” He thought he might have seen Arthur’s hand twitch beside his face.

Dutch’s laugh was sharp. “Maybe.” His fingers curled around the blanket preserving Arthur’s modesty. “But I think tonight, I’ll let you look all you want.” John’s breath caught in his throat. And he could see Arthur’s hand tighten around the quilt before Dutch ripped them off his body. Desire ripped through John like a drink of whiskey as he stared at Arthur. His sun scarred skin was flushed, mouth pulled into a shocked O as he turned to look at Dutch. John rubbed at his jaw, restraining an inhumane groan as Arthur sat up. 

“What are you doing?” The soft voice from before was replaced with Arthur’s normal drawl. John knew he should have been looking away, or better yet, leaving. But he couldn’t pull his eyes away from Arthur’s body. The broad spread of his shoulders and the muscle of his toned chest, the light dusting of hair as his navel leading to his cock. His hard cock. John’s brain stopped and started, mouth dry as he stared at it. Even after every time Arthur got a little too close to him, or grabbed his wrist a little too tight. After every hot glare they shared with their noses still bloody and their jaws aching, or the yearning look Arthur leveled at him across the camp’s fire, he never thought he would see something like this. John devoured it all. If he couldn’t touch, staring would be enough. Even the curve of Arthur’s ankles was enough to make John drool for him. 

“Stop it, Arthur.” John finally looked to his face. His cheeks were bright red, lips pursed as he stared up at Dutch. His hand was still curled around the blankets. “Lay down.” Arthur didn’t move. John’s hands curled around the edge of his chair. The moment he managed to gain his footing, on the edge of their performance, the rug was ripped out from under him again. Dutch stripped off his shirt and his hands fell to his belt buckle. John watched as Arthur’s eyes followed the movement, and his Adam’s Apple bobbed.

Dutch shucked his pants and kneeled on the bed. One hand fell to Arthur’s thigh, while the other grasped his jaw. He wrenched Arthur’s head to the side, forcing him to look at John. His eyes were piercing. And worried. Dutch’s mouth was at his ear, and John watched it move, desperate to know what the hell he could be saying, what tale he could be weaving. The words were indistinct. But they had power over Arthur. His eyes fell half way shut, the moue of his mouth melting into a gasp. When Dutch pulled away, and Arthur’s eyes pulled open again, John thought he was looking at a different man entirely.

Any earlier worry was forgotten, and he was malleable under Dutch’s hands. He laid back against the bed, spread his legs for Dutch to slide between. He was patient and sweet, almost coy as Dutch felt up his chest and thumbed at his chin. John didn’t know who he was looking at. The Arthur he knew would have taken what he wanted with few questions in between. He would have been filthy and talkative in a honey warm drawl that made John’s skin burn. He knew nothing about this Arthur, who tilted his head back on a noise close to a whimper as Dutch slid inside of him. But, he had never been in bed with him before. What did John know, next to the man who owned him?

The lack of recognition of this version of Arthur didn’t mean that John could stop looking. The last thing he would do in that moment was look away. His cock throbbed in his jeans, fingers flexing on his knees as he stared at the curve of Arthur’s nose and how his mouth parted around gasps and groans. He had never looked at something with such intense detail, until he was unable to tear his eyes away from the pieces of golden hair falling in front of Arthur’s eyes and the way sweat began to bead heavy at his brow. Anything that belonged to him could catch John’s attention. The dirty beds of his nails clawing at the pristine white blankets or the way that his thigh shooks and clenched.

Dutch’s hands on him were simply smears that obscured what John wanted. The rumble of his voice, steadily spouting filth that Arthur eagerly leaned into, was background noise for the sounds of Arthur groaning like a hurt animal. He pretended like Dutch wasn’t there. Like he and Arthur were the only two men on earth. Like he was the one pressing inside of him and snapping his hips in the right angle to make Arthur whimper and arch his back. Arthur wasn’t even looking at him, but still John could pretend like he was on top of him. Inside of him. Dutch shoved his thigh down to the bed, giving John a better look at Arthur’s cock dripping onto his stomach. John knew he was looking at him, but he ignored Dutch’s gaze in favor of devouring Arthur with his eyes. 

If he stared long enough, he might be able to imprint this into his memory. If it never happened again, he would always remember these images. Arthur’s eyes squeezed shut with his lashes fanned across his flushed cheeks. His toes curling and hands anchored beside him to try to hold onto some semblance of himself. John wished Dutch would touch his cock, make him come. He was starting to grunt and jerk, languid thrusts becoming choppy and short, and John knew he would come soon. Arthur, even flushed and strung taut, was nowhere close. But again, what did John know?

Arthur’s head fell to the side, chin pressing into his shoulder as Dutch fucked into him without a care for his enjoyment. John’s eyes were riveted to Arthur’s face, unable to look away from the slick part of his lips and the red that crept below the scruff of his beard. Even with Arthur laid bare to him, a fantasy stretched in front of him, John still found the most beauty in his face. His eyes flicked open, a piercing blue from between the pieces of his sun burnished hair. John’s mouth dropped open on a heavy inhale, searching for oxygen as that stare knocked the breath from him. Their eyes were locked together, something passing between them that made the hairs on the back of John’s neck stand up. The moment was broken when Dutch groaned, hand feeling up Arthur’s chest to his throat, forcing the man to look up at him as he finished.

The temperature in the tent dropped and John leaned away from the scene. It was impossible to find his footing in these moments. As Dutch pulled out of him with his hand still resting around Arthur’s jaw. With the way Arthur looked up at him as if he had strung up all the constellations in the sky. More than ever, John knew he didn’t belong. Not with his cock still aching in his jeans, and an unreasonable anger boiling in his throat. A rage not born from the way that Dutch touched him or how Arthur clung to him, but the way that Dutch had no interest in touching him, finishing him off. A rage, instead, born from knowing that John would treat this man so much better and knowing he would never get the chance to show him. 

Without waiting for Arthur to look at him again or for Dutch’s dismissal, John left the tent. He made no attempt to tie the flaps closed behind him. He leaned into the ripping wind and the biting cold, desperate for it to calm the fury that made his hands shake and the sorrow that weighed heavy in his bones. The night spoke to him on the wind and in the twinkling of the stars, but offered him no consolation. He stumbled through the camp, buzz mostly worn off, but still managing to list like a drunk without looking where he was going. The trees closed around him, roots snaking under his feet and tripping him, until he broke through the groping brush to the edge of a river. He fell to his knees and vomited before he hit the sand. Whiskey burned his lips like it did going down. He curled his fingers into the scrub grass and let the dirt shove its way under his nails.

When his stomach was empty he struggled to his feet and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. His boots crunched over smooth pebbles that gave way to silt and sand at the edge of the water. He walked until the river lapped at his feet. The cold seeped through his shoes and into his skin and even that couldn’t anchor him to the moment. This curve of the river was calm, moving like a shifting mirror under the night sky. It was brighter down here with moonlight reflected back at him along with an image of himself. Familiarity wrapped around him like a warm blanket, between the darkness and the sounds of deer breaking through the brush, he found himself again in the reflection of the river. His fingers dipped into his reflection, disturbing the water as he cupped his hands and washed his mouth and chin.

With his skin rippling with numbness, he stepped out of the water and collapsed onto the sand. Damp grains pressed into his ass and thighs, heat leaching from his skin and sucking the anger from his pores. He watched the water wash up onto the beach and weave through clumps of grass, waiting for something and nothing all at once.

Something came quicker than nothing. “Thought I told you not to get hurt, Marston.” John didn’t turn to look at Arthur.

“Who said I did?” Sand shifted under Arthur’s boots as he walked down the banks of the river. He made no move to sit. The silence they shared with night was nothing like the deathly quiet of the tent. 

“Can I sit?” Arthur finally asked. John gestured vaguely to the ground beside him. It took every ounce of his self control to keep his eyes from immediately snapping to Arthur. Their shared silence stretched long, comfortable with night filling in the gaps between them. John curled around himself, knees drawn up to his chest with his arms looped around them. “No need to look like a scared animal.” Arthur’s voice was normal again, a smooth, fatherly drawl.

John prickled. “Fuck off, Morgan.” He chuckled and John’s belly flipped. When Arthur offered him a cigarette, he took it, trying to not look at the dirty lines under his nails. Or worse, at his face. He pulled matches from his pocket and struck one. Hot light cut through the darkness as Arthur lit his cigarette, before leaning over to John. He didn’t hand him the match, but instead raised his hand to his face. John was forced to look at the lines of his palm as Arthur lit his cigarette. The rolling paper crackled as he sucked in the smoke. Arthur shook out the match.

The streams of smoke from their cigarettes ribboned and twisted together in the night, entangling in the moments before the wind ripped it away. “I am… sorry about all that, John.” His first name dripping off Arthur’s tongue was obscene in its innocence. After everything that he had seen, after the anger that ripped through him like a disease, the intimacy was terribly out of place. “I’m not sure what I expected, but it wasn’t that.” Arthur chuckled, and to John it sounded horribly sad.

He pulled on his cigarette, buying himself a scant moment before his thoughts tripped over themselves. “Why’d he do it?”

Arthur tensed and the silence between them shifted. A cloud of smoke escaped John’s mouth, and he knew Arthur was buying himself a little time too. “I mighta revealed my little crush to him.” John’s mouth was dry. He let that creeping silence cover them again. His mind was whirling, but words weren’t caught in their wind. John casted a sidelong glance at Arthur. He was sprawled on the beach, one arm braced behind him as he stared out over the glassy river. His mouth opened and closed, cigarette forgotten between his thumb and forefinger. “I said the wrong name. When he touched me.”

John blinked at him. Then laughed. “I’m surprised he didn’t shoot me in my tent.” Arthur turned to look at him. The corners of his mouth were turned up, but his eyes were dark. John swallowed and had to look away. John jammed his cigarette back between his lips. He chewed on the end of it, shredding the paper and tasting the tobacco. 

“No need to say sorry. For staying.” Arthur raised his cigarette to his mouth, even though it was barely lit. “Just don’t do anything stupid.” His lips closed around the end and made the ember glow back to life. He exhaled and John watched the smoke billow out across the river. “And don’t get hurt, Marston.” It was an echo of what he had heard so many times, but it speared into his belly like no other. Knowing didn’t soothe the sting. He nodded and allowed silence to carry his answer to Arthur. 

They sat together and finished their cigarettes, before Arthur rose to his feet and extended a hand to John. He flicked his cigarette butt into the sand and curled his fingers around Arthur’s wrist. The man helped him to his feet, but John didn’t let go of him immediately. “It doesn’t have to be like that.” Arthur stared at him. Their gazes tangled together, neither willing to break the spell. But Arthur had no response for him, no promise. John shook his head and let go of Arthur’s wrist. “But you know that already.” 

He turned away from Arthur and started the walk back up to camp. And John could have sworn that he felt the tips of Arthur’s fingers catch over the back of his shirt. He didn’t pause to wait for the words that could heal him, or the touch that could carry a promise with it. Arthur didn’t stop him. 

**Author's Note:**

> [come be nasty with me on twit](https://twitter.com/sinningpumpkin)   
> 


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